


Days Go By

by chii



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 15:03:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/800047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chii/pseuds/chii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're together long enough that they move around each other with the kind of ease that he remembers John and Mary having, two people who've been together so long that they move like one well-oiled machine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Days Go By

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what I'm doing, um. 
> 
> I'm dipping my toes into the Supernatural fandom waters here, posting something rather than sitting on a load of unfinished fics, as I have been for a while now. This was originally written to be 500ish words, just one scene based on some fanart I got linked from tumblr, but THAT DIDN'T WORK so here is 4500 words of vomit. 
> 
> YEAH SO THIS WAS A THING, and now we're never going to speak of it and I will go back to hiding in the dark reaches of fandom. 
> 
> Also it's only fair that all of you know that I seriously debated tagging this shit with like, "WARNING, OLD MAN SEX," because there is totally old man wang in this. (Cas counts, okay, he's fucking ancient.) I also waffled on what equaled a M rating as opposed to an E, but whatever, let's go with E, even though I think it may be around an M since the pornin' isn't that explicit. 
> 
> ANYWAY, the picture, for the record, is: http://daggomusprime.tumblr.com/post/28176438377/old-man-dean-and-his-young-man-3-i-have-a-huge this lovely piece of work.
> 
> Edit: NOW WITH REAL LINEBREAKS, what the hell AO3.

Dean wakes up to the smell of bacon and eggs, and the sound of the alarm ringing shrill and harsh in the background, and drags the pillow over his face. The sound doesn't make something sick lurch in his belly anymore – instead, it's something he hears every so often; it directly coincides with the longer they work on trying to teach Cas how to cook.

Four, three, two-

And there it goes, off again. Dean rolls onto his side, and drags the pillow up over his face, and hides in the nest of blankets and pillows and drags his hand over the spot that has long since lost its warmth from Cas getting up and being productive. He's got work, soon, Dean knows, but he lifts the pillow enough to squint at the clock, and closes his eyes again. They've got time **.**

Cas makes his way in a few minutes later, simple black boxers and one of Dean's old, well-worn shirts hanging over his shoulders a little loosely, the buttons not buttoned correctly so it hangs a little awkward on him and Dean grins at him from the nest of blankets, pretty sure that's the most endearing thing about Cas wearing his clothes. “What'd you burn?” he asks in good humor, as Cas settles in with a plate for both of them, back against the headboard as Dean sits up, and groans as his knee gives him a little protest, aching faintly. It hadn't ever been the same after the hunt in Greenville, and it's cold enough outside that it's giving him shit, even this early.

“The bacon,” Castiel says solemnly, and Dean chokes out a laugh around a piece of toast. The eggs are a little over-done, as are the slices of bacon, but the toast is smothered in butter, and Dean is just so stupidly grateful for it that he doesn't even care right then, lips quirking up as he polishes off the eggs in three more large bites.

They finish breakfast, and Dean snags the plates before Castiel can object, piling them up as he nudges Cas toward the bathroom for the first shower while Dean goes to take care of the dishes. The floor is chilly against his feet, but it isn't terrible, and the start of sunlight is licking over the edge of the counter, trailing in from outside as it gets later and later. Castiel makes his way back down not long after, and it's seamless, the way that he slips in next to him, and Dean wipes his hands clean to go take the next shower, letting Cas take over the dishes. He yawns hugely, pressing his mouth to Cas' bare shoulder on his way past, and showers, quick and efficient, dressing in an equally well-worn shirt and pair of jeans, making his way downstairs once he's shoved a hand through his hair, and pulled it forward.

“Sam wants to know if we wanna grab dinner after work,” Dean calls as he goes to grab his boots, knee twinging just a little bit as he crouches and digs for them, pulling them out of the shoe holder, slipping them both on with a little hopping, as Cas wipes his hands on the dish towel and lingers in the doorway. “I told him probably – 's Friday, so I can just come in on Saturday and get some more work done if I gotta.”

He loves Friday night dinners with Sam – Mary's getting big enough now that she's dragging them all over the place, and loves it when the two of them come over, just as much as Dean does.

“Of course,” Cas reaches out, amused that Dean is even asking when it's just shy of tradition now, and touches Dean's temple, soft fingers lingering there for a moment, watching Dean's face shut down. He hates it when Cas gets like this, all soft and warm and pleased, when it's nothing that he ought to be pleased about. He bristles, all sharp edges and irritation to Castiel's slow, warm smile, and the way he runs his fingertips achingly gentle over his hair.

“Dude, stop,” Dean mutters, and pushes his hand back, ducking away half-heartedly, because it's not like he's going to change Castiel's mind after this many years. He's still going to do it, and Dean's still going to get his panties in a wad, because it was ridiculous. “D'you know what Sam dropped off the other day? Just For Men. He had the balls to text me afterward and ask if I'd gotten it.”

Cas' lips twitch up in amusement (the son of a bitch was in on the joke, wasn't he) and Dean rolls his eyes to the ceiling as he grabs his wallet and his keys, and dodges the kiss, shoving his hand in Castiel's face playfully, making a noise when Cas kisses his palm instead. “No, you're a traitor, traitors don't get goodbye kisses, they get bleach put in their shampoo,” Dean mutters, and drags his keys out and into his hand, lasting for a whole twelve seconds before he leans in and presses a kiss to Castiel's clean-shaven jaw, elbowing him on the way out. “Dinner, you, me, Sam's,” Dean calls, and eases into his car with a creak of old leather and metal.

****

__________

****

Mary is a winter baby, her birthday a week short of Dean's. They have the parties together, because Dean still doesn't particularly like having birthday parties, but he'll spoil his niece something awful.

It takes place in the tiny house that Sam shares with Amelia and their daughter, and after they've all had cake and Mary's opened her presents, and gone to her friend's house for a sleep over, the four of them end up sprawled in various parts around Sam's living room, watching a movie that Sam had picked up on a whim on his way home from work one day. The remainder of Dean's presents (despite his insistence that no, he doesn't need them, and no, he's not a year older) sit on the table next to him, their dog playing with the wrapping paper off to the side, curled with his chin on Sam's foot.

It's terrible – Bruce Willis is looking ancient, and Dean makes a face at the screen. “I cannot believe they cast him as Dooku in this,” Dean bemoans, and kicks his feet up onto the coffee table, only to drop them down the moment that Amelia levels a look at his feet. Castiel huffs out a faint laugh beside him, and Dean retaliates by shifting on the tiny love seat and crowding Cas in on it, stretching his legs out over the man's lap, promptly taking up as much room as he can. “I don't know why you gotta remake these, too, I mean I get nothing is sacred, but _Christ_.”

With the aid of alcohol, they make it through the remake, and by the end of it, Amelia's asleep, draped over Sam's broad chest, Sam's dozing off, and Dean's sprawled out taking up an impressive amount of the couch, watching the credits with slitted eyes, half-awake, half-asleep. He moves when nudged, letting Cas nudge him off the couch, and he walks over to Sam, pressing a hand to his shoulder, shaking him gently enough to get him awake. “Gonna go,” he murmurs, and watches Sam's arm curl around Amelia's shoulders, watches her shift in closer and breathe deep and melt against him, and he grins, suddenly.

This is worth it. This sight, right here, Sam's hair messy and sticking up every which way, with pictures of their daughter, the five of them, pictures of Sam graduating college, pictures of their dog – all of this was worth it. “Night,” Sam murmurs, and Dean takes an extra second to put on his shoes to watch the way Sam scoops his wife up, easy as can be, and the two of them head off to bed.

He's tired enough he expects it to be easing toward one or two – a glance at his wrist tells him 10:48 in glowing red numbers, and Dean smothers his groan with a yawn, hating that eleven  is late, now. His stomach is full of good food, he's warm with alcohol, and Castiel is a solid, familiar line against his shoulder as the two of them walk home. They make it to the front step before Dean steps up, and walls Castiel neatly against the front door just so they can make out like teenagers again; he has to admit that it's half the alcohol and the warmth of summer, and half because he's belligerent at the idea of getting older, at eleven being late.

****

The two of them spill inside with some rather complicated footwork, and Dean locks the door haphazardly behind them as he pushes Cas to the nearest flat surface, and tips him back over it, crawling up over the couch over him, watches Cas melt into the couch, easy and pliable as Dean strips himself and then Cas, too, and presses his mouth to every square inch of him.

He can't recall the last time they'd just gone at it on the couch, and Dean takes a ridiculous amount of delight in making out naked, with all the lights off, in shoving Cas down on the couch and doing things with his mouth and Cas' cock that his teenage self wouldn't even begin to _dream_ of **.**

Maybe getting older isn't so bad.

__________

 

“ _We_ could stop,” Castiel says gingerly one morning, and he's grateful for the fact that he's in the shower, not looking at Dean as he rinses out the conditioner from his hair. It’s a valid suggestion. They’ve been doing this together for years, long after Sam had settled down, had his family, gotten everything he had wanted, and that Dean and Cas had wanted for him. Isn’t it time that he and Dean got the same?

Dean stares at himself in the mirror, wearing nothing but a loose pair of boxers. He’s got more scars than he knows what to do with, his tattoo, a  slice down his side that’s still healing from a hunt a few months back. There are touches of gray in his hair, no matter how he refuses to think about it, and for a moment, he’s just so achingly tired.

They have, for all intents and purposes, retired.

They don’t actively seek out hunts anymore - Dean keeps up on the news, does a few searches every so often to make sure their town is safe, and it’s usually only when someone calls that he and Cas take a job, because someone has to.  He’s tried saying no - there’s a network of hunters, he tries to say, but he can’t deny that there’s some small part of him that says, _it’s okay. It’s okay, we’ll just have one last hunt_.  

It is, of course, never just one.

 

 

__________

**  
**

“You are meant to live a long, full life, until you are very, very old,” Castiel says, and it's times like this that Dean remembers that no matter how old he feels, Castiel is endlessly, hopelessly older than him. Blue eyes focus on his, and it's unsettling, just as much as it's thrilling, watching this thing – this ageless,  _ancient_ being inside a meatsuit watch him like that.

Castiel spreads his hands over Dean's hips, presses warm lips to the jut of a hip, and traces the line down, mouth open and breathing hot over the arch of his cock, and Dean presses fingers into his hair with knuckles that ache sometimes, and notices despite all his attempts not to, that Castiel's hair is just the same as ever, dark and messy and there are no wrinkles at his eyes, nothing but faint laugh-lines from Jimmy. “You are meant to live for a long, long time, Dean Winchester, because there is precious little else that Heaven can give you that you would take.”

And ain't that the truth. Dean hadn't wanted anything to do with Heaven after it'd all settled down. It had been bad enough losing Castiel for the six months that it had taken for him to straighten everything out, to help Gabriel (who, for the record, was still a pompous dick and who Dean decidedly did his level best not to think about) while he organized Heaven, and sorted out the factions, soothed all the massive butthurt that resulted from Gabriel waltzing back in with a surprise, _hey, I'm not actually dead! Sorry about the clusterfuck that is Heaven._

Castiel smiles, and Dean promptly forgets all thoughts of Heaven or Castiel's douchey family, and loses himself in the warmth of Cas' mouth easing down around his dick, the way he swallows it effortlessly, the way his cheeks flush and his eyes go lidded and dark and just fucking _takes it,_ and it's still one of the hottest fucking things that Dean's ever seen. He fucks up into Cas' mouth in short, firm pushes of his hips, watches Cas' eyes slide shut, and comes with a muted sigh.

By the end of the night, he's loose-limbed and fucked out on the bed, listening to Castiel quietly speak in his ear, some English, some in other languages, quiet and soft and reverent, and Dean doesn't know if he can take hearing what he's saying or not, because sometimes Cas legitimately loves him too much, and Dean doesn't know how the fuck he's supposed to be expected to take it.

“Never thought I'd even make it to _old_ ,” Dean says finally, and winds a hand through dark hair, curls them at the nape of Castiel's neck. “...D'you know when I'm supposed to finally kick it?”

Castiel closes his eyes, curling an arm around his shoulders, pressing his mouth to his shoulder, and stays silent, because some things Dean doesn't need to know, some things, that Castiel wishes he didn’t. It is one thing to be an angel, to live years and years and years, but it’s another entirely to be so intertwined with someone else’s life so much, that he’s forced to realize just how short human lives are.

“No, now go to sleep, Dean. Let the reapers worry about that,” Castiel says, and Dean doesn’t question him, even if he thinks it sounds like a lie.

__________

****

 

“You should retire,” Castiel suggests one day, with all the gravity of someone who has said it a thousand times and expects to say it a thousand more. “No more one lasts.”

It isn't the most delicate word, and all it does is make Dean bristle and stiffen and sit with his shoulders tense.

****

They don't talk about it again for another six months, until Dean's eyes aren't as good as they use to be, his hands aren't as strong as they once were. He's not out of shape – no such thing, but age, age will do that to you. He's accepted the gray in his hair, the way his knee aches a little more these days, but he can't- he refuses to accept this.

“ _We_ should retire,” Castiel says again, pressing a hand to the small of Dean's back, tries plying him with kisses and sex and says it in the afterglow, when Dean's tying the condom off and tossing it into the trash, and Cas is stretched out on the bed, watching him. “Dean.”

“Hunters don't retire,” Dean mutters, and once, it had been a valid argument. Once, it was true, because hunters didn't retire. They died young, or were maimed, mauled, or something similar. They didn't voluntarily say they wanted to stop doing this, not really. Now, though, times have changed; the activity at the bunker is proof enough of that, where Krissy checks in on them every so often, via phone or email.

“You could,” Cas says and it sounds like you deserve it, but that's the end of that discussion, because he knows when Dean's shut down, when he refuses to even consider an option. Dean doesn't need to look to see the disappointed look on Castiel's face, the way that he's watching him like he wants to say something else but he's picking and choosing his battles today.

They don't speak about it until Minnesota, when Dean's hands tremble just a little bit. It's put off until months later, in Illinois, where he has to squint, has to wear glasses and isn't that just the most fucking irritating thing on the face of the planet. They put it off and off until it's too late.

__________

**  
**

Dean misses a shot.

A woman dies, then the monster does too, shortly after, but not soon enough.

_________ ****

They retire that day, in the middle of summer, with a dozen hunts lined up that he has to pass off to Krissy and her group, and Dean is grateful, so, so fucking grateful that she doesn't patronize him, and ask him if he wants a desk job, tracking down hunts.

“Retire,” Krissy says, like there isn't any option and she's not going to have any of his shit. “It isn't the end of the world, Dean. We can handle it from here.” She's right – she grew up, and she's a helluva hunter, just as good as Dean and Sam were back in the day, and Dean knows she's got her head on straight, got her shit together. She can handle it from here.

He tears himself apart with guilt and regret and and not even Castiel can make him feel better, because he's fucked it up, and he's fucked it up bad. They spend the whole summer doing insane amounts of yardwork, work on the Impala. Dean keeps himself as busy as is humanly possible, and Castiel watches over him, makes sure he doesn't ever push himself too far, and never says a word about it.  Dean builds their house a deck, and on a whim, he buys a grill, too, because their old one is rusted and sad and really, really needed to be taken to a scrap heap a lot sooner than it was.

They have cookouts on the deck, with Sam, his wife, their kid and their godawful, slobbery monstrosity that loves Dean for some reason. He grills steaks and hamburgers, and listens quietly to Mary tell Castiel about the crush she has at school, watches the way Cas turns every ounce of attention on her, and isn’t listening until he hears Sam choke on a laugh or the burger, and realizes that Cas must have said something, because now everyone is looking at him, snickering. “...What the hell,” he asks, and Mary, bless her heart and her lack of a brain to mouth filter, tells him that Cas had been explaining that some guys were just dumb, and no matter how hard you tried to tell them that you liked them, sometimes it took a while.

“He meant you, Uncle Dean,” Mary says primly, and takes a bite of her fry with a grin, and Dean stares at Sam, because it’s totally his fault that he raised a sassy little kid.

“You’re s’posed to respect your elders,” Dean says, and promptly steps on Castiel’s foot under the table, jumping when a hand finds itself on his thigh, fingers touching the seam of his jeans along the inside, and goddamnit, that’s just not fair.

Summer ends more peacefully than it begins, and shifts to fall, leaving Dean to rake leaves into neat piles, pushing Cas away when he offers to help, because he’s got this, it’s not that hard, he’s fine. Castiel wants to object - it’s written all over his face, and Dean turns away from it, because sometimes, it aches, looking at him, young and like a day hasn’t gone by, knowing that Cas is gonna outlive him by a million years, just like that.

****

 

__________

****

“She’s-- what.”

Dean stares at the invitation like it’s a snake about to bite him, because this really has to be some kind of a joke. It’s cute and dainty and Dean is staring, because there has to be something wrong, because it’s not possible.

“She’s what?”

“Getting married, Dean,” Castiel says with infinite amounts of patience, rolling his eyes when Dean swings his head to look at him, sour and squinting at him, because he knows what Cas said, okay, it’s the believing part that’s hard. “She’s twenty-four, Dean, it’s not like it’s unexpected.”  

Except, no, it totally is because holy shit Dean remembers Mary graduating, and remembers this dude being barely a blip on the radar, high school boyfriend or not. But married? “Jesus Christ,” Dean hisses and presses his hands to his face.

“Actually, it says his name is Mark,” Castiel says, and it’s so nonchalant, so blank that Dean drops his hands and stares.

“No one likes a smartass.”

__________

Dean shoves himself into a monkey-suit for the wedding, and adjusts Castiel’s collar, his tie when it’s all done, and sits through the wedding, through the party, and everything else, and takes in the sight of Sam, happy and with his family, and thinks yeah. Yeah, if this is what they get at the end, then this was worth it.  He even manages not to get too offended when someone at the wedding - cute girl, dumb boyfriend, asks if Cas if he’s here with anyone, and when Dean is gestured to, she coos that it’s so nice he’s here with his father, and the boyfriend gives him a look. Dean wonders if they think he's Castiel's sugar daddy. The thought is enough to get him through the wedding.

Dean’s pretty sure he deserves a medal for not saying a single goddamn word, even as Castiel neatly corrects her, and doesn’t bat an eye at it.

_________

 

Mary only faintly knows what they do - Sam hadn’t tried to hide it from her, or Amelia, refusing to be their father though, too. He’d struck the happy medium that Dean had always been afraid he wouldn’t be able to achieve if he’d raised Ben, so he lives vicariously through his brother when Mary is younger, and takes her out for ice-cream and drives her around when she needs to go somewhere, buys her treats when her mom says no, because he’s determined to be the cool uncle.

Now, of course, he can’t do that. She’s too old for that, and it seems like it’s barely weeks later that Dean finds out that she’s expecting.  He’s got his laptop perched on his knees, fingers dragging across the screen to make the text just a little larger as he looks at the pictures that she’s sent. Mary had moved closer to her husband’s family; still within driving distance, but enough that it was a bit of a trip, so he relied on pictures, most of the time, when he and Cas weren’t driving down for birthdays and such.

“Oh,” Cas says, arms full of laundry and a cup of coffee, and he settles it down into Dean’s hands as he leans over and looks at the pictures with a faint smile as he presses his lips against Dean’s hair. “She looks happy.”

Yeah, Dean thinks, and flicks to the next picture, taking in the sight of her smiling and happy. Yeah, she looks happy. They did okay.

__________

****

The winter makes his bones ache, and god, it’s so fucking old person-y, but Dean almost debates asking Cas if he wants to move to somewhere warm, because fuck this snow business. He likes it, sure, but he aches, and when he suggests it over dinner one night, he doesn’t know what to do with the way that Castiel’s face falls, and he looks like Dean’s suggested kicking some puppies or starving some orphans.

“It was just a suggestion, Cas,” Dean mutters, and no amount of poking or prodding will get Castiel to open up about what’s got his panties all in a wad up his ass. That night, Dean goes to sleep sore, and he wakes up without an ache or a pain, and with Cas suspiciously avoiding his eyes. He doesn’t bitch about the waste of grace, doesn’t complain about how Cas ought to know better, ought to save it ‘cause even though he’s full angel, he just shouldn’t.

Instead, he doesn’t wear his glasses when he reads, doesn’t ache when he dresses, and spends that night showing Cas that he is most definitely not getting old, fuck you very much.

  
**** __________

Unlike how Dean believes, Castiel knows the exact time and date that Dean Winchester will cease to exist on the mortal side of things. It’s a countdown that goes on in the back of his mind every morning that they wake up and every night that they go to bed, because Castiel is ageless and ancient and each day passes like the blink of an eye, and it is one less that the world has with the most righteous, perfect man that Castiel has ever known.

So when Dean suggests somewhere warm, Castiel tells him no, because there is a calendar, and it is counting down, and the thought is too much right then.

Instead, they go on a vacation. A real vacation, with beaches and warm sand and Castiel wraps his arms around Dean as they stand on the beach, and does his best not to think of the calendar ticking closer every moment that goes by.

__________

****

They spend the night in their house, in their bed, and Dean is exhausted by ten, curling up with Castiel under a load of blankets, their suitcases still packed from their vacation, still full of clothes. Dean has a glass of whiskey before bed, and Castiel kisses him goodnight, and watches him fall asleep, watches his breathing even out. Watches as Dean melts into the warmth and softness of the covers, watches his chest rise and fall, rise and fall, rise and _fall_.

Dean Winchester dies peacefully in his sleep, at the ripe age of eighty-seven, and Castiel isn’t expecting it to ache just as much as it does.

“At least it was peaceful,” Tessa says quietly, and smooths her hand down Dean’s face, tucks the covers in a little more around him, and watches Castiel quietly. “For a while there, I thought it wouldn’t be.”

“Me, too,” Castiel sighs, eases out of bed, and smiles at her, relaxed. “Thank you. Now, if you’ll excuse me."

 _Go get him, tiger_. And then he’s gone in a rush of wings, leaving Tessa to vanish a moment later.

****

 

__________

****

****

Heaven looks nothing like how he remembers, but then, he thinks that is Gabriel’s doing, most likely. It’s brighter, better, and Cas stretches out his wings, lets them slide out and free as he waits for Dean to appear. He isn’t surprised when he’s hit with what feels like a ton of bricks as Dean slams into him, and shoves him back, kissing him even as he tells him that he’s an asshole, a fucking asshole, warn a guy, okay, I woke up to your dick of a brother grinning at me and I thought we’d really fucked up.   

Dean mashes another kiss against his lips, haphazard and shamelessly dirty, because he doesn’t ache, doesn’t hurt one bit anymore. He’s in the same shape as he was when Cas recreated him, perfect, in Cas’ mind, and Dean’s pretty goddamn grateful about the whole thing, too.

Dean curls his fingers with Castiel’s when it’s done, and they go track everyone else down at the Roadhouse, Bobby and Ellen and Jo and everyone else, and eventually, Sam and Amelia are there too, and Dean is pretty goddamn content. Dean and Sam Winchester deserve Heaven more than anyone else Castiel can think of, and in Dean’s mind, it’s only fitting that he’s got Cas there with them when it’s all over.

**  
**


End file.
